Er, It's a Horrible Plastic Beach
by ThingsToDoAtWalmart
Summary: The story of Murdoc Niccals and Stuart Pot, start to finish. Slash in later chapters. Follows original Gorillaz history from Gorillaz, Demon Days, and Plastic Beach. Then I sort of do my own thing. WARNINGS: BoyXboy, language, possible sexual content okay, likely sexual content , and drug use. Also, third important character in this story is Noodle. Her plot ties with slash pl
1. The Vegetated Pet of Murdoc Niccals

To be honest, I really dunno what happened that morning. It wasn't frightening, really. Not frightening or angering or anything. To be honest, it was kind of amazing. Amazing how the squeal of tires hitting pavement could be so closely identified with the shattering of the glass windows and how that damn car—or rather, the driver inside it—busting through the shop could aim so recklessly—reckless enough to, just out of coincidence, run me down.

Inside a keyboard shop.

The story really isn't one packed with action—at least, not on my end as I was unconscious within moments of the event. There are a mere few factors from that morning that I can call back to my clouded mind. For example, I remember that there were these real obnoxious kids runnin' round the store. I'd lost my name tag that morning, and I'd received a good scolding and a couple slaps in the back of the head from the manager.

But I'd just been standing around the shop, not really sure what I was supposed to be doing—I'd been unsure of what I was doing for the last year that I was working in this small keyboard store. I used to be the star employee at Uncle Norm's a few years ago. I played the keyboard—and pretty damn well if I do say so myself.

"Hey, you little twat!" I'd turned to the manager bleakly, lips slightly parted. "Don't do that with yur face—you look retarded." I screwed up my expression shamefully, and he sighed. "What do ya think you're doing, anyway?" I'd felt confused by such a question.

"'Thought I was workin'."

"Obviously not. You're just standin' there!"

"But…I stacked up that pile of keyboards yesterday…"

"So?"

"Wha…wha else is there for me to do?" My shoulders slumped, eyebrows making a small V of ignorance and confusion. He sighed again, and I felt a small wave of guilt. How many times had I heard that same sigh? The sigh of exasperation from my mother, father—_frequently_ from my father—and any other poor soul to come into contact with me?

"You know what, why don't you just go and 'elp Randy with the boxes?" He'd said, shaking his head and walking away. Corners of my lips twitching downwards, I'd done as he said and moved to the other end of the shop. The boy named Randy was a couple years younger than me at seventeen, but he still looked upon me with disgust on the rare occasion that our shifts overlapped.

"What do you want?" He sneered, lifting a box over his shoulder with a little more grandness than I thought was required. It was glancing sideways that my eyes fell on the teenage girl a few racks away. Did he not notice the look of discomfort and nervousness on her face as he sent a meant-to-be-handsome smile her way? My eyebrows rose as I stared at him, but I didn't comment on that matter.

"Well, Mr. Creavy tol' me to 'elp you out with these." I pointed to the cardboard boxes of music books—just for piano, of course. He'd scoffed.

"I'm not working with you." He started to walk away towards the cash register. "You finish those yourself." I pursed my lips, but said nothing as I turned back to the boxes. There were still quite a few left, but nonetheless, I started to heave them towards the shelves, mostly pushing and shoving rather than pulling or lifting. My skinny, femininely fragile frame didn't aide my strength very well. I didn't really care for the "feminine" bit.

It was then, when I'd returned to the cart of boxes for the fifth time, that those two children, a boy and a girl, scampered past me, laughing happily, chasing each other. The girl knocked into my leg as she passed, and I stumbled backwards, trying to hold onto the large box balanced in my arms.

Of course, being the clumsy boy that I was, I wasn't able to keep my balance and tipped backwards, falling on my arse. The box tumbled out of my arms as I cringed and reached back to run my hand over the sore small of my back. Giddy with excitement, the two children circled me at a run. I was getting dizzy trying to keep my eyes on them.

"Hey! Blueberry fell down!" The boy shouted with a wide grin. I frowned. Surely they could think of a better annoying nickname than "blueberry." My head of blue, spiky hair was often made fun of and laughed at. I learned to get over it. After all, I hadn't chosen for it to be this way. It was an all new low for me to be _bullied_ by two six year old children, however.

Suddenly, the girl had stopped running abruptly, her face curious, and she leaned over to pick something up. For a moment, she examined it, and then she looked up at me with a sweet smile. "Hey, Mister Blueberry, did you lose your name tag?" I squinted at the pin in her hand and flustered in embarrassment. "_Stuart Pot"._ It must have been in my back pocket all morning..

"Ah! Thanks!" I laughed excitedly, reaching out for the tag.

That was when I heard the tires. That high-pitched squeal of rubber on cement, and there was no time after that. There was a shriek from the children's mother at the other side of the shop. "RACHEL! GEORGE!" And then headlights flared outside the glass doors, glaring right into my face. I shoved the two children sideways before trying to jump up off my knees, but there was _no time_. My hazel eyes widened as the glass door shattered and the Vauxhall Astra shot forward.

But, as I said before, they didn't widen in fear or even shock. But, strangely, they widened in awe, and the first thing to cross my mind was, _"What a terrible car…"_ The driver shouted out the open window of the car at the customers, waving a gun out of it. He wasn't paying attention.

"Everybody get down! We'll kill you all if you move." Though the voice was frightening and somewhat raspy, there was no note of malice. In fact, the man sounded rather uninterested. And then, as he wasn't paying attention, the bumper of the car rammed me full-on in the face, and it wasn't so interesting anymore.

I blacked out.

. . . .  
**(A/N: For this next bit, I just want to make it clear that I'm only using present-tense writing while 2D is in his catatonic state. Once he snaps out of it I'll return to past-tense. Sorry if that gets confusing, but I'll warn you guys when I switch back to past-tense.)**

I try to open my eyes.

Perhaps it's exhaustion that makes my lids so heavy. Or perhaps the fact that I can't move any other part of my body.

Or maybe it's because my left eye socket burns like hell—no exaggeration. It feels like there's a fire circulating through the left half of my face. It's a white, hot pain that, unsurprisingly, I don't really feel like complaining about. Right now, I don't really feel like complaining about _anything_.

My body feels kind of tingly. Strangely numb, like your arm feels when you lay on it for too long, or something—only it feels like that all over. So, it would most likely be a little bit painful if I tried to move _any_ part of my body. It would be reasonable to just lie here and wait for the pain to go away, but I've never been a very reasonable person. My fingers twitch experimentally.

All of a sudden, something's grasping my hand desperately, painfully—this whole "ease myself out of the strange sensation" idea is moving a little more quickly than I want. A voice hisses in my ear.

"Hey! Stu! Stu, wake up!" The voice is familiar, but I don't trouble myself trying to remember it. Because all of the sudden, I just want to go back to sleep. "Stu, please!" I might have sighed, but then again…I don't really feel the impulse at this moment. Using pent up energy, I work to open my eyes. The burning is intense, and I almost close them again, just to make the pain stop.

"Oh, Stuart!" While I recognize the woman sitting beside me, I still don't really try too hard to put a name to her face. She's young—my age, it looks like—and she's very pretty. She gasps as she looks at me, covering her gaping mouth with one hand. I don't ask why she's so distraught—I don't really care. I look around me, and recognize the very familiar cleanliness of a hospital. The fumes are almost suffocating.

That same tingle of agony clenches my fingers and I look down to see that this young woman is the one holding my hand so roughly. For a moment, I just stare at them expectantly, waiting…she doesn't remove her hand. Finally, I just pull mine from hers, sending another unpleasant jolt up my forearm. She's still gawking at me, but I don't really care. The room is that familiar, bleak white, with teal curtains. Teal that's several shades lighter than my azure disarray of spikes.

There's a stubby plant in the corner, as though somebody added it in a weak attempt to bring décor into the room. I've been in a room like this before, but the last time I was fifteen—I'd actually fallen out of an open window while getting intimate with a girl. She was able to disentangle herself before the fall.

I wasn't so lucky. That's "clumsy" to the maximum extent. It's also terribly embarrassing, but not the maximum. I've had worse embarrassments.

Suddenly, the door opens and two faces appear that I _can_ give names to. Or at least give…_titles_ to. Mom and Dad. My mother gasps when she looks at me and turns away, her eyes tearing up. Dad looks pretty distressed too.

"How are you feeling, son?" He asks gruffly, and for a moment, I don't understand that he's talking to me. When it occurs to me, I don't answer, but just watch the woman sniffling in his arms. She isn't looking up. My voice feels lost, like my vocal chords have snapped. I really have no desire to pursue a conversation with them anyway. Suddenly the woman beside me speaks to my parents.

"We have to press charges." She whispers.

"Paula, I know that—"

"Look at him!" She interrupts my father, pointing to me. "Look at what that man did to him! His eye…! And on top of that, he's got Catatonia! It's all that man's fault and he should pay for his crimes!"

"Paula," He says again. "They're already sentencing him for armed robbery. That's enough for Rachel and I."

"David," She says irritably, "He barely recognizes you, and…" Tears jump to her eyes. "I don't think he recognizes _me_ at _all_." I might have rolled my eyes, but rather than that, I just stare at her with disbelieving eyes. I find that I can't really…_understand_ what the problem is.

There's only a minimal frustration.

I try to sit up, but refrain at the uncomfortable twitching of my limbs.

Dad moves as though he wants to help me, but then changes his mind and puts his arm around Mom again. The ache in my face is starting to become more pronounced, and I cup my left eye with my hand. My mind seems so slow—like you feel when you just wake up. Like you've been awake 'till five a.m., and somebody comes to wake you up at seven. They could be telling you that a fire just started, but you still haven't fuckin' earned back those seven hours of sleep, have you? Such a situation might just give you the strength to flick 'em off, call 'em a prick and go back to sleep.

Why I'm thinking about this, I can't even figure. In simple terms, I feel drowsy. My vision's a little blurry, and even though I've probably been awake for a good five minutes now, it's not clearing up at all. I'm still too sleepy to recognize my own irritation at this fact.

Other than these defections though, I feel very comfortable—you know, not including my hellishly painful face-ache. For a brief moment, I wonder—with a very mild curiosity—what could cause such agony. As though reading my thoughts, the woman, Paula, hands me a mirror on the bedside table, and I look inside. It probably would've been frightening, what I see. But I can't really register what I'm looking at. My left eye is…strangely colored. The um…the…whatever, the "white part" is now dark, and the lines forming my, uh, pupil and stuff, have disappeared, making the whole eyeball a depthless black in color. Horrifying.

Unthinkingly, I reach for my face, planning to pull at my eyelids and observe the strange appearance, having mismatched eyeballs. _Very_ mismatched eyeballs. However, Paula smacks my hand away, and my dark orb drifts to her irritably.

"Don't do that Stu—you're gonna make it hurt more." She puts my hand back on my lap, and for a moment, I'm still as an indignant anger touches me. The moment she pulls back, I reach for my eye again. "No, Stu." Again, I'm restrained, and again, I ignore her command. I really don't want to touch it _that badly_, but there's a strange new senseless, childish impulse to get what I want.

"Ugh! Look at that!" She hisses to my parents when she finally gives up and I poke at my face while looking in the mirror, pinching each of my eyelids and pulling them apart so that the edges of my black eyeball are visible. Cool… "He's all…not Stuart!"

"We're not pressing charges, Paula. Besides, Mr. Niccals' sentence is beneficial to both him and Stuart. Stu gets care and Mr. Niccals gets…well, he pays for his crimes." Dad says.

"You're not _really_ gonna let that maniac have him, are you? Not that he even _wants_ him at all! You two can take care of him fine! _I _can take care of him fine!"

"The three of us all have jobs, Paula. Who's going to care for him when we're working, hmm?"

"You can call a babysitter!" She snaps furiously. "But this is the man who almost killed him, remember? And you're just gonna leave Stu in his care!"

"Calm down," My mum speaks for the first time, pulling away from Dad and drying her eyes with a tissue in her pocket. "Mr. Niccals is—"

"What's with this 'mister' crud?" Paula mutters grudgingly, turning back to me.

"—a respectable man. I think it was peer pressure. You know, all the kids now are telling each other to steal and stuff."

"He hardly counts as a kid, Rachel."

I settle back more into my pillows, yet feel more and more uncomfortable. Perhaps that's because Paula is now running her fingers through my hair, an unconsciously soft smile on her face. The smile is unsettling—I feel unused to such a kind expression.

For a long time, everybody's quiet, and everybody's looking at me. Okay, super uncomfortable now. I look to the window and yawn. I'm starting to wonder if this is even the same _room_ as the last few times I was here. Because this view is pretty exact from how I remember it. A cracked parking lot, an untrimmed tree resting near the corner to the intersection, and a weak little bush lining the sidewalk. Suddenly Mum talks.

"He's gonna be here soon to get him."

"What!?" Paula whips around, almost knocking her chair over. I flinch, but don't look away from the window. "He's not even properly healed yet!"

"Dr. Clarkson said that there's nothing to heal! The damage is permanent!"

"Shouldn't we at least wait for him to come out of his coma?"

I squint at the window pane now. What are they talking about? I'm not in a coma. I feel perfectly…normal.

"He may never come out of it, Paula." Dad says quietly, and I'm feeling a little irritated now. I open my mouth to protest, but nothing comes out, and I suddenly feel exhausted. I collapse on my pillows, mouth hanging open tiredly. Paula seems a little put out too. She sighs and turns to gaze at me, though I don't return it.

"Oh, Stu…" Such sentimental bull crap. I'm not in a coma. My eye lids start to droop, but I hang on to that thought. I'm not in a coma. "At least let him sleep for now." And, as though she were talking to me, I silently agree and let unconsciousness win me over.

. . . .

I'm awoken by the loud slam of my hospital room door. My eyelids pull open resentfully, and I can't bring the room into focus for a few seconds—which is ironic, because a few seconds is all the warning I have.

"Come on, wake up now, face ache!" That might've been funny. After all, I was just thinking that a while ago. But it isn't the least bit comical as a hand yanks my shoulder forward roughly, and that horrible tingly feeling shoots through my limbs, though I just cringe. I look up warily, and then curiously. Strange man. He's tall, and he's got this shaggy black hair, and he's real slender-lookin'. Though I know I'm at least two times skinnier. I'm skinnier than everyone.

I'm so lost in the concentration I'm mustering to observe his appearance that I don't even realize how my lips are hanging open in that stupidly unconscious gawk, and that my eyebrows are furrowed. He crosses his arms while watching me and rolls his eyes—which are two different colors. I almost laugh. He's got mismatched eyes just like me.

"Well come on! Get up!" He says irritably, and I squint at him in real confusion now. The man sighs and then grabs my arm, yanking me from the mattress. He ignores the fact that my legs are tangled in the blankets, and I stumble to the floor as he drags me over to the dresser. "Get dressed, and hurry it up!" I just stand there, staring at him, dumbfounded. He growls, and the sound is surprisingly feral. "Can't you even get dressed yourself? I was hoping maybe you'd be the other kind of Catatonic." I tilt my head to the side curiously, and he continues his explanation grudgingly.

"There's the kind of Catatonic that's all jumpy and bubbly, and that walks around in circles for fun, and then there's the kind that don't talk and apparently don't do nothin' at all for themselves." I continue to stare at him, and he sighs again. "The name is Murdoc Niccals. I'll be the care-taker for the newly vegetated face ache." He holds his hand out to me, and I just stare at it. He frowns. "You're not too bright, _are_ you?" I don't recognize the sarcasm in his tone.

Without a second glance at me, he turns to the dresser, rummaging through the drawers for a few moments before pulling out a mismatched (I'm starting to think that a lot of things are gonna be mismatched now) set of clothes and throws them at me. "Put those on—we're leaving." Just when I'm pouting my lips curiously and pulling my shirt off, the young woman—Paula—rushes in the door, her cheeks flushed.

"What do you think you're doing?" She shouts at the man named Murdoc. "You can't just kidnap him from the hospital!"

"Watch me." He says with a smirk before turning to shove the rest of my clothes—which, for some reason are in this dresser—into a dark blue duffel bag.

"You have to be careful with him! You can't just shove him around like that! He's got Catatonia, remember? And all thanks to you, so you'd better shape up! You owe him!"

He rolls his eyes, muttering to himself as he zips the bag closed with long clawed fingers. "He ain't so fragile. Don't get your knickers in a twist." As he says this, I'm having a little bit of trouble fitting my arms into the right sleeves of my shirt. I come up with my right arm in the head opening and my left in the right opening so that my head is still beneath the fabric. I can barely see under the shirt's rim as the two of them stare at me quietly, mouths hanging open. "Aw'right, maybe he _is_ that fragile." Murdoc mutters disgruntledly as he roughly helps me into the right position.

"You'd better be nice to him." Paula says warningly as he scoops up my pajamas and shoves me towards the door.

"If he's not too much of an arse. Doubt it, though."

"I'm serious! If Stu comes back with _one_ scratch on him, so help me god—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah!" He waves her away irritably. When the door is opened, I'm pushed into the hall, and I stumble before regaining my balance, eyes drooping even though I've only just woken up. Murdoc Niccals starts to drag me by the elbow through the wide corridor, but I'm too drowsy to ask where we're going. Why am I so damn drowsy all the time?

He pulls me through the hospital lobby and past the check-out desk, though the woman tending it looks as though she wants to stop us. Again, my mouth is hanging open like a mental person as I'm literally dragged through the parking lot and to a dark blue Vauxhall Astra. A terrible, beaten Vauxhall Astra.

And suddenly, it all falls into place.

I become dead weight, and he drops me so that I have to stumble to my feet to face him. And then I'm frozen, just watching him.

I was in the keyboard shop. That's right, I was in the keyboard shop, and I was uh, I was movin' boxes I was when it happened. Er, there was a little…kid? My memory is a little hazy, but this is definitely that car. This is definitely the battered piece a crap that busted through the window then.

"What the 'ell are you doin'?" He growls grumpily, and suddenly, I can identify his angry tone with the bored one from the scene.

I feel my blood spike in my veins. He's kidnapping me. That's gotta be it! He probably killed everyone in the place after I passed out, an' now that he knows I'm still alive, he's come to finish the job so there are no witnesses! I _want_ to scream. I want to run and shout that he's an insane murder. I want to _save_ myself.

But I just stare at him quietly.

"Go on! Get in the car!" He grabs me by my shoulder and pulls the passenger door open before pushing me in. There's still time to get away…

He closes the door and then walks around the front to get in the driver's seat. The doors lock, and I'm trapped now. Goodbye life. As though suddenly tired, I bury my face in my hands and might've groaned. He looks to me in annoyance.

"Okay, I don't really have time to babysit you all day, so here's what's going to happen." I peek up at him between my fingers, eyes still—somehow, even under the circumstances—drooping. "You're just going to do what I tell you to do, and I'm not going to be hindered at all by you, right?" I stare. Why is he…? "Right?" I continue to gawk at him unintelligibly, and—with a roll of his eyes—he smacks me upside the head, not hard enough to really hurt me, before turning the key in the ignition.

We back out of the parking lot, and turn onto the road. I _really_ don't want to look at the terrifying man, but then I _really_ do, as though to make completely certain that this really is the man who almost killed me. The whole ordeal just resolves to the random twitches of my hollow black eye from a fixed point on the windshield to the pair of leather-clad feet to my right.

He doesn't say anything, and I of course don't say anything, but he turns to look at me. It might've worried me that his eyes aren't on the road, considering what a crazy driver he is even when he's paying attention, but I'm currently curling an uncurling my fingers, as though the movement is absolutely fascinating to the eye.

"So you…don't speak, then." He says, as though to himself. I don't look up from my hands. Suddenly he grins, and a shiver runs down my spine. His teeth are sharp and pointy like some monster from a child's bad dream, and the action really does make the man look like Satan himself. "Well that's an added bonus. That means I won't have to waste my energy beating you to a pulp 'till you have no words _left_."

I really have no way to react to that, so I don't. Instead, I stretch my legs under the dashboard, reaching my fingers towards my toes. After a long while of silence, Murdoc Niccals laughs. I look up warily. He shakes his head, as though I'd asked him to explain.

"I really did a number on yur face, didn' I?" He doesn't sound as repentant as he should be about that fact. Surprisingly though, _I'm_ not as _angry_ as I should be about it, so I really can't and don't want to complain. I turn to the window, pouting just a little, and he laughs again. "Nah, bein' totally honest, I had absolutely no idea you were there. I was a little preoccupied tryin' to rob the store. Once I'd made sure I wasn' gonna be charged for murder or somethin', it was actually pretty fuckin' funny."

My eyebrows furrow in irritation as I stare out the window, but not really at him. It sounds as though he got caught when he tried to steal from Uncle Norm's, and it sounds as though nobody but me got hurt, which was by accident anyway.

Meaning that this man _isn't_ a mass murderer. Totally wasted nerves.

And this is his punishment for robbing a store? Community service? Hauling a catatonic (scratch that—I mean perfectly sane) blue haired teenager around with 'im? For a moment, curiosity strikes my mind. How many hours a day am I supposed to hang around? And what am I supposed to _do_ for those hours? Sit in the passenger's seat?

I'm now gazing out the glass with a very melancholy feeling. Paula—I'm finding that that name is more and more familiar every time I think it. Her position in my life is just on the tip of my tongue—talking to me like I'm a child, Mum not talking to me at all, Dad never speaking more than five words, and Murdoc Niccals sneering and insulting for the rest of my life. I actually muster the strength to sigh.

Am I really in a coma?

I can't be. When you're in a coma, you're supposed to feel…_incoherent_, aren't you? You're supposed to feel like you're in a different world from everybody else while your body does its own thing…right? But then again…maybe it's like this. My thoughts seem to be my own, but they're very slow now, and I feel so _tired_…

The feeling in my head is a bland aftermath of destroyed interest for life. It's like I'm a child again. Like I'm seeing other people for the first time. Like I'm moving my body for the first time. Like I'm still learning to speak. Like I'm catatonic.

This _sucks_.

. . . .

Now I've succumbed to the knowledge that I'm _temporarily_ catatonic, it's not too surprising that rest has done absolutely nothin' for my shuddering limbs and mild headache. I don't open my eyes now that I've regained consciousness. The surface I'm lying on isn't real comfortable, and it's pretty hard, but better that than wake up and greet this still new, terribly horrifying dilemma.

I just want to lie here and sleep some more…

But suddenly, I can't help but wonder where "here" is. Where did I fall asleep again? I feel around me with my sore hands and note that the surface is sleek and absolutely _rock_ hard. Wooden flooring. My right hand stretches farther, and meets another vertical wooden surface. A…door? Finally, I open my eyes, and see that I'm right.

It's a door.

I readjust and look around myself. It appears to be a bedroom. There's a good sized bed against the western wall, and there's two tall lamps on either side of the room. Neither is on. There's a dark mahogany dresser against the same wall that the door is on, and the walls are a shallow blue. I remember now.

Murdoc Niccals had driven me back to his house, but his friends were here. There were three of them. There was a slender, very tall boy with messy brown hair and a tattoo encroaching on the side of his face. There was also a pudgier one with a cigarette poking out of his lips, and then—this was the real shocker—there was also a woman. Only I knew this woman. This was the "teenage girl" from Uncle Norm's that I'd seen that day. She'd been in on it? All this careful planning to have someone on the inside, and they'd still been caught.

This was the crew that had orchestrated the robbery.

After a few minutes of their making fun of me, Murdoc had locked me in his bedroom while they were here. I supposed it was considerate for him to lock me in a room with a bed, but then I thought that that was probably just coincidence and that he'd probably crack my bones if he caught me asleep in his bed, so I'd just curled up by the door and closed my eyes.

And now I'm awake. And I don't know how long I've been asleep, and I don't know how long I've been in this house, and I don't know where Murdoc is, and I don't know how to get out of this room—There are no windows. It's like this house was built in case something like this ever happened when he'd have to keep a prisoner.

For a long while, I just lie there, contemplating. Should I wait it out? I figure that's the reasonable thing to do, and I curl up again.

I'm almost asleep again when the door bangs open, smashing against the back of my head in the process. I don't even whimper as I clutch my head in my hands and scramble away from the door, looking up. Surprisingly though, it isn't Murdoc. It's the woman from his crew. She looks from the door to me and back with a curious expression.

She really is pretty, I'll admit that. She's got full lips that are now painted an electric yellow, a nice figure, and her brunette hair's got streaks of purple and yellow in it. She looks like she could be in college, just like me. Finally, she snorts and enters the room, one eyebrows rising at me.

"Uh, why were you sleeping on the floor?" Obviously, I don't answer, and she smacks her palm against her forehead. "Oh, I forgot. You don't talk, right?" She kneels down in front of me, as smirk on her face. "Sorry about that by the way. Murdoc has never really been very careful." She gestures to my black eyeball, but she doesn't look very disturbed or grossed out. Okay, she's _really_ pretty.

But that still doesn't mean that I want her near me.

Of course, I'm a little curious. Curious as to what it's like to know a criminal, but I already know Murdoc Niccals, and that's enough for me. I curl into a ball against the bed, and peek at her over my folded arms. Just like a child. She laughs.

"You really did get pretty messed up in that accident." It was hardly an accident, I think edgily. Your boyfriend deliberately drove a car through a store window. "But we didn't mean any harm—really. Muds is…" Totally unrepentant, I supply mentally. "Well, he didn't mean to. It's not like he busted your face on purpose." She laughs nervously, as though these words sounded better in her head.

The door is pushed open further, and Murdoc is standing in the doorway, a bored expression on his devil face. "Rachel, Aaran and Lew are leavin'. You goin' with 'em?" She sighs, but doesn't take her eyes away from me. I make a mental note—she has the same name as my mother.

"Yeah, just a sec." She says to him before smiling at me. "Don't let Muds give ya too tough of a time, kid. He's really harmless if you can get onto his good side." Are we both thinking of the same man? The one who ran me over with a car? She sighs again and stands up. Murdoc glances at me.

"Hey, face ache," He says, waving for my attention. "Com'mon. It's time for you to get out of here too." I stare at him blankly. What's that mean? Does that mean he's gonna make me walk or somethin'? But I don't know how to get home from here. I don't know where here is. He waits as Rachel walks past him and into the hallway, and when I still just stare, he growls a curse word under his breath and stalks over to me.

Murdoc fists his hand into the front of my shirt and yanks me to my feet. He drags me behind him into the hall, and we walk alongside the other three towards the door.

"Try not to beat up Tosspot too much, Muds. You'll need him breathing if you want to stay out of prison." Lewis says, the tall brown-haired boy, with a smirk. "Tosspot" is the new nickname that they've made up for me. Lovely.

"I know that." Murdoc mutters irritably, seeming actually disappointed by that bit.

"Hey, get over it. At least it's better than the life-long community service." Aaron says, the pudgy one.

"That's debatable." Says Lewis, still grinning. Murdoc mumbles something incoherent again.

"What are you lot talkin' about?" Rachel says amusedly, holding the door open for all of us. "I wouldn't mind harboring an adorable blue-haired catatonic teenager."

"That's because it's an adorable blue-haired catatonic teenager." Lewis replies mockingly. "Makes it harder for them to reject you when they're trippin' over their own feet anyways, huh Rachel?" She punches his shoulder as we reach Murdoc's gravel driveway.

"Well, 'guess we'll see you tomorrow, Muds," Rachel says, glancing at me as Lewis and Aaron clamber into a dark green Honda Civic.

"Ya," Murdoc replies indifferently, running his fingers through his hair. My huge eyes follow the movement curiously. Unthinkingly, I copy him, though I'm not able to copy the cool air that goes with him. My fingers are more frantic, excitable, and my expression remains a curious gawk as I watch him. He doesn't notice this, but the three that are getting in the green car do.

Lewis laughs, and Rachel smiles warmly at me. At this, Murdoc turns to look at me. I look right back at him, and blink. He glares, but the brunette girl catches him. "Come on, Muds, he's catatonic. What are ya gonna do?"

"Knock 'is teeth out." Murdoc growls, but she ignores him and continues.

"I think it's cute. It's like you have an adorable shadow." With this, she winks at me and slides into the passenger's seat. The car starts to back out of the driveway, and Murdoc waves, seemingly exhausted. Hesitantly, I copy the gesture and move my hand back and forth towards the departing criminals, though my dilated pupils stay on the black-haired Satanist beside me.

It's a strange kind of feeling. Like my mind is still sarcastic and bitter, but then as soon as there's actually another human being around me, I act on that childish instinct to get attention and to be cared for. As Murdoc turns to glower, I realize that I _want_ my temporary caretaker to like me. As the thought touches me, I suddenly have a new pining craving to get on that good side that Rachel and I—or rather, just Rachel—discussed.

"Go on, get in." Murdoc says, opening the passenger door and yanking me forward. I climb in willingly as he circles around and once again gets in the driver's seat, feeling awake and excitable for the first time since entering my coma. Which is unlucky, because it's nighttime right now—ten o'clock according to the clock on the dashboard—and I'll be going to bed again soon when I get home.

But I just stare at Murdoc Niccals the whole drive to my house, getting myself more familiar with his features. One of his eyes is a hazel color, and the other is sort of glazed over, like it's covered in a thin layer of film or something. Also, they usually have a furious flare to them. His nose scrunches up a lot when he's irritated, which is seemingly almost always. His lips are thin, perhaps because they're pursed all the time, and his dark bangs cover his whole forehead—partially his eyes.

It's all a little scary, but it's also a little intriguing. This man is sort of interesting. And really, there's no reason to be angry with him, other than the fact that he locked me in his bedroom, since the whole car thing was an accident anyway. The robbing-the-store bit wasn't any of my business, so no wrongs were done on my side, I suppose.

Eventually, we reach my house—I faintly realize that Mum must've given him the directions—and he pauses at the curb. I stare at him for a while, and he stares back—that same glint of anger in his hard pupils. After a moment, I smile to myself. In a way, his constant anger is sort of cute in a puppy-dog kind of way. Like a little kitten trying to roar like a lion.

He's taller than me, but not by much. And though Murdoc is slender, he's not very fit—like the strong kind of fit. We'd probably be well matched in a fight, though I'd lose anyway just with my lack of experience, but other than that small flicker of irritation—so constant in his glare—there's nothing too scary about this man. It's comforting.

He scoffs at my stupid smile. "Go on—get out of my car, face ache." He leans over me to push the door open, and I clamber out without protest—of course, without protest. Within moments, the door is closed again, and the battered Vauxhall Astra is speeding away, leaving me at the door of my home. For a moment, I just stand there, and then a voice calls to me.

"Stu! Stu, there you are!" I turn, and Paula is practically skipping down the porch steps to greet me. She hugs me, and then pulls back to smile. "We thought you'd never get back! Come on, there's something inside for you to eat." She takes my hand and leads me up the steps. I look back to the corner where the car had disappeared, and mull over my thoughts for a moment.

It seems as though I'll be seeing Murdoc Niccals a lot now, so I guess that this will become routine in time. He'll pick me up, perhaps lock me in his bedroom again, and then I'll go home. For a long moment, I think about that. Then, I inwardly shrug, _Ah, what the hell,_ and let the dark-haired girl before me drag me up the steps and into the warm, snug house.

And that was the day I became the vegetated pet of Murdoc Niccals.


	2. 1 Drunk Broad's Better'N 2 Pissed Ones

Aw'right, it's safe to say that I was absolutely and completely wrong. If Murdoc Niccals is the tiny kitten, I'm the flea-sized mouse.

I have officially been catatonic for one week. It's been pretty fuckin' bad. The next day after meeting Murdoc, Paula was all fussy about letting me go with 'im again—convinced 'erself that some leftover chocolate on my cheek was a bruise and what not. It was very irritating, for the Satanist and I both. Murdoc, I suppose just because it was a pain having to wait for her to get over her fit, and me because it only made me feel more childish.

As I predicted, Murdoc took me back to his house, but let me sit in the living room with him and his friends this time. I watched silently from the arm of Murdoc's chair, making good on my nodded promise not to be a pest. Rachel fretted over me, and argued with the Satanist while Lewis and Aaron laughed their arses off. At what, I didn't really know. Whether it was at me or just at Murdoc's general predicament. But I wasn't offended, because it seemed like this was something I could get used to if I had to.

Something that wouldn't be _bad_ to get used to. Sitting on the arm of my caretaker's chair while a beautiful girl scolds that he should be nicer to me, drinking a flat Pepsi all the while. Not too bad at all. Murdoc doesn't try to talk to me a lot, but when he does, it almost sounds like he's forcing himself to sound an interval less irritable—of course, just because I'm catatonic. He doesn't refrain when I do something stupid though, which apparently is a constant event.

Once Lewis attacked Murdoc—just in a playful way, you know—and as I stumbled back to get out of the way, I dumped half my soda (I'm not allowed to have beer—Rachel thinks it may be extra dangerous to be drunk if you've got catatonia) on the carpet. How I got out of that one without a right hook to the jaw I don't know, but for the next two days the Satanist looked as though he was refraining from strangling me whenever I was around. It actually looked quite exhausting.

That's not to say that he never touches me just because of my comatose state. His constant greeting and farewell to me is a whack in the back of the head, and a lot of times he just does it for fun or because I'm staring catatonically into space—never mind the fact that I _am_ catatonic.

As for Lewis and Aaron, they seem to find the whole thing absolutely comical. Murdoc's unusual sentence—caretaker for the person _he_ put in the hospital?—, my absent expressions, Murdoc's obviously crippling self-control around me, my black void of an eye, Murdoc's amusement when I seem to misunderstand what people say to me (that happens sometimes), and my lack of irritation at these trivial things. All horribly hysterical to the two men.

Normally I might tell Murdoc to shove off, but that brings us back to why he's my caretaker in the first place, don't it? 'Cause it's hard to stand yur ground when you're feelin' nauseous every other minute. A bit annoying, really.

And right now is one of those moments when I wish that I'd just snap out of it, because right now I'm in the passenger seat of the Vauxhall Astra, and Murdoc is _pissed_. His eyes, alight with terrifying fury, stay on the road, and his nose scrunches repeatedly in irritation. His jaw rotates, bringing a muttered curse every once in a while.

I'm sitting to his left, shoulders hunched defensively, eyes shifting nervously from the dangerously swerving road to the furious man beside me, practically spitting his outraged protests.

A young woman in the bar that Rachel, Lewis, Aaron, Murdoc and I were sitting in had been drunk and, after hanging herself all over Murdoc (Who was already irritated due to the fact that I'd just, without thinking, taken a sip of his forbidden Tequila in curiosity), dumped her beer on him when she got the hint that he wasn't interested. Lewis had had to restrain the Satanist.

It might've been funny, really. Might've been funny, except I'm sort of afraid for my own life at this moment, so I keep quiet. The profanities spewing from his mouth only get worse, and with every declination of control, my shoulders rise a little more—my body caves in a little more.

"What kind of…of drunk woman does somethin' so…so drunk-like?" I inwardly roll my eyes at this, though my external expression is pale and nervous. The car is starting to, ever so slightly, veer to the left. I put my feet up on the seat and hug my knees.

I had silently asked why the woman's performance disturbed him so much after leaving the bar by furrowing my eyebrows. After all, Murdoc Niccals seems fond of women, though I don't really think he respects them all that much. Then again, it seems that Murdoc Niccals respects absolutely nobody, male or female.

He had replied with an incoherent growl, and muttered, "The women I screw are a little more classy than drunken floozies." That surprises me to be honest. You'd think that he'd just take what he can get, as that seems to be the kind of person he is. You'd never think that a man as shady as Murdoc Niccals would actually have _standards_. But I guess he does.

I roll down my window, about ready to try and jump if he doesn't get it together before we crash, when a faint buzz in my back pocket makes me falter. Slowly, I reach back and pull out my cell phone before putting it to my ear and pressing the talk button.

"Stu?" It's Paula. I recognize her voice. "Stu, it's me. Paula." Yeah, I already knew that. Another inward roll of my eyes. Does catatonia make you more irritable too? "Listen, Stu. I need you to pass the phone to Murdoc, alright?" I don't do anything, and after a few moments, she earns a new edge in her tone. "He _is_ there, isn't he? That bastard didn't leave you on your own, did he? I swear if he—" I didn't hear the rest of what she said though, because I was holding the phone out to Murdoc.

He looked to me with the faint burn of a fire still in his eyes, and then at the phone. Curiosity tinted his pupils, and he let me pass it to him.

"Yeah?" For a moment he just listened, frown growing all the while. "Ugh, calm the fuck down, woman. What is it you want?" Another pause. "Can't you just tell me over the phone?" Pause. "Why does face ache have to be there?" Pauuuuuuse. "Alright, alright, I get it. We'll be there." He hangs up and starts dialing a new number, muttering under his breath again.

"Hey, Chel," He murmurs into the receiver. "Yeah, I need you to round up Lewis and Aaron and head over to East Park…You're already there? How…?" With every moment that Rachel's voice is heard, muffled through the receiver, his eyebrows knit together more and more. Suddenly he growls. "That obnoxious broad got your number? How?" He listens, and then rolls his eyes. "Whatever, face ache and I are on our way now. See ya." With a violent twist of his fingers, the cell phone snaps shut, and he shoves it in his pocket rather than handing it back to me.

For a long time, I stare at him expectantly. And for a long time, he ignores me. At last, the Satanist sighs. "Yur girlfriend wants to meet me mates. I imagine she wants to give me another little guilt-trip speech as well." I feel taken aback, and crumble guiltily. To be honest, I really _do_ like the girl that hangs around my house and family so much. She's real nice to me, and seems to care for me, but it still kinda sucks that her worrying is making Muds dislike me more.

I would apologize, but that feeling of snapped vocal chords is still constant, and it feels as though I can't get the vibration in my throat to form words with. So I stare at the car floor instead, twiddling my thumbs together in shame. At least, it seems as though the black-haired man beside me has forgotten about the woman in the bar, and isn't as fired up anymore. That's something to be thankful for, I suppose.

We arrive at the park, and when I get out, it appears as though everybody is there. Lewis, Aaron, and Rachel are all standing under the shade of a tall maple tree, Lewis and Aaron looking uncomfortable, but the brunette looking thoroughly pissed off, a cigarette pinched between her middle and index finger. Me mum and dad are standing a few feet away from them and Mum looks a little nervous, as though she isn't sure being so close to the criminals is safe.

And Paula is already walking towards me, a smile on her lips. She ignores Murdoc and pulls me into a warm embrace. It's sweet really how often she hugs me, but it gets kind of embarrassing when all the people you know are staring at you and the embrace just seems to last, and last, and last…

Finally, I pull away _myself_, as gently and innocently as possible, looking around myself as though I don't even notice the distance I'm putting between us. A catatonic teenager can get away with that, can't he? Rachel snorts faintly, and I look over Paula's shoulder to see her roll her eyes and cross her arms. This is unusual only because Rachel is usually very affectionate towards me, and encourages other people to be nice to me, so it's strange that she seems irritated with this very friendly gesture of Paula's.

Paula sends her a brief glare before taking my hand and pulling me over to the group of uncomfortable people. Murdoc takes his place between Lewis and Aaron, putting his hands in his pockets and pulling out a pack of cigarettes. I watch him enviously. It's been forever since Rachel has let me have a cigarette. I secretly think that she just lets me smoke while I have catatonia to spite Paula, who doesn't allow it.

"So why are we here?" The Satanist says drawly, irritably. Paula glowers, but it's my dad who speaks.

"Well, Rachel and I just wanted to meet all of you…" He looks as though he's rethinking that decision. "And to see who it is that our son's hanging out with now." You can hardly call it 'hanging out with', I think. Murdoc is my caretaker, so I'm around his friends a lot. Though, the more I think about it, it sounds kind of nice thinking of this group of criminals as my friends, as bogus as that seems.

"It's no trouble, Mr. Pot." Rachel says with a polite smile.

She elbows Murdoc in the ribs as he mutters, "Yes, it is," and instead says to my parents, "We get more fond of Stu every day." Ironically, Rachel is the only one besides Paula who calls me "Stu." My parents call me "Stuart", Lewis and Aaron call me "Tosspot", and Murdoc calls me "Face Ache" usually. So I guess it always gave Paula a lot of satisfaction to know that this was like her own little pet name for me. That's probably why she gets all stiff when Chel calls me that.

"He's really sweet." She continues, and I'm starting to think that she's aware of my dark-haired friend's irritation. Mum and Dad look surprised. Though Paula is the one who deals with my care taker (usually by nasty phone conversations and reminders), my parents have met Murdoc, and appear to have expected that all his friends would be similar. It seems like Rachel is the one in the group who has the general control—the general coolness.

The brunette moves to my left side and drapes her arm over my shoulder, pulling me against her side. Is she really unaware that Paula is still holding my right hand and that she's shooting daggers at her with her eyes?

"Well, Stuart seems to enjoy all of your company." Dad says, and I blush, looking down. Obviously, it's not like I tell my parents about my days with the group, but I suppose it's a little obvious when you're practically running to the door to get to the beeping Vauxhall Astra that's parked at the curb. Murdoc isn't nice to me, but Rachel keeps him from hurting me too bad, and Lewis and Aaron laugh about me a lot, so I guess they don't dislike me. It's nice being a part of something so close to a group of friends.

Murdoc chuckles quietly, and my cheeks flush even more.

"Actually," Paula says, practically growls, "We wanted to make sure that you aren't getting him into trouble."

Rachel glares, and even Lewis and Aaron tense a little bit in irritation. Murdoc is the only one who seems to be staying level-headed. He pushes the smoke of his cigarette out through only slightly parted lips, and looks rather uninterested. I realize that all three of them are looking at him, as though waiting for his signal to reply to her, and that's when I figure out that even though Rachel is the smarter one of the group, it's still Murdoc who leads everyone.

He looks at Paula with a slight smirk on his face. "We're not responsible for the face ache. If he gets himself into a fight or somethin', that's not our fault." Rachel hisses in disapproval—this obviously isn't the reply that she wanted. Paula glowers as well.

"Yes, it is your fault. You're supposed to be the one watching him. I don't care if you get yourselves locked up—you belong in prison anyway—but you'll never hear the end of it from me if you get one little damn scratch on this boy's record." I glare at Paula, and Murdoc snorts sarcastically.

"Just because he's catatonic, it doesn't mean that he's an idiot. If he goes and steals a car, that'll be of his own choice. When we talk to him he seems to understand well enough, though it's not like he ever does what I tell him to do. So, there's also no reason for him to feel "influenced" by us, or whatever the hell you're thinking." He says, mirroring my thoughts.

"Don't flatter yourselves." Paula says with a slight laugh. "I don't mean that he'd be influenced by you. I mean that I wouldn't put it past you criminals to _make_ him do something." At this, Lewis steps forward, Rachel growls, and my dad steps towards Paula protectively.

"Believe me," Murdoc says, eyes narrowed with that dangerous edge that he manages. "If we were gonna commit a crime, the last git we'd recruit for the job would be face ache. Who'd want someone who can't even walk without trippin' over his shoe laces or somethin'?" I blush and glare at him, though he's not looking at me.

I don't really trip over my shoe laces when I walk…

Though Rachel also looks a little irritated by the comment, she remains silent. Until Paula replies.

"You say that like his clumsiness can even compete with your drunken mates." She glances at me and then at Rachel. "What was _she_ locked up for—statutory rape?" And Rachel snaps.

"You little bitch!" She roars, lashing her arms towards the dark-haired girl furiously while Lewis scrambles to pull her wrists behind her in restraint. Even I think that went way too far. None the less, I move to stand in front of Paula as Murdoc advances on her, outraged. He pauses at my movement, and I look up at him, bringing as much apology and regret to my face as I can. He scoffs and tries to shove me away, but this once I'm able to stand my ground. I dig my heels into the dirt, and wince as he tries to push me back.

My body is sore all the time. _All the time_, I feel like I got into a huge fist fight the night before—bruises covering every inch of me, but when I lift up my shirt, all I see is that translucent pearly skin, in perfect condition. His insistence makes me feel like he's trying to rip off my shoulder because of the pain, and I clench my eyes shut.

Even while just seeing darkness, I still hear Rachel and Paula arguing behind me, Lewis shouting to the brunette to calm down, and Aaron arguing profusely with my mother while Dad tries to get Paula away from them. It's all a mess.

This whole meeting was a mess. It was a bad idea on Paula's part, and it was a bad idea on my parents' part. And again, I get that horrible feeling of exhaustion, the terrible sensation that all my limbs have just stopped working, and I lose all my strength. I just want everybody to shut up. I just want them to shut up so that I can go to sleep. At last, Murdoc pulls back and rams me with his shoulder, and they all do shut up. Because that's when I lose consciousness.

**Hey guys! I'd really like some reviews and followers soon, 'cause this story's gonna be really long. Also, don't worry, I'll try and speed up 2D's catatonia. Hope you guys have enjoyed this chapter and I hope you keep reading! Thanks,**

**-TTDW**


	3. Dads aren't allowed to be bitter, right?

Why am I waking up in so many strange places lately? I feel like it's becoming a habit.

When I open my eyes, I note—with relief—that I'm not back in a hospital room. Those smell weird. However, I'm also not in my bedroom. Sitting up, I look around myself and recognize the shallow blue walls of Murdoc's bedroom, and realize that I'm lying on top of the high, squishy bed. For a moment, I stare down at the green and blue patterned quilt, calling back the previous events to my mind.

The shouting, the pain, and otherwise unpleasant memories. I cringe. Why am I here? Surly—_surly_—Murdoc didn't. . ?

"Hey, Tosspot's awake," I look sideways, and see Lewis, Aaron and Rachel leaning against the chipping wall. Rachel moves forward, looking guilty, and sits down beside me, staring at the hardwood flooring. For a moment, she's silent, and then answers my unspoken question, which I suppose is written all over my confused face.

"I insisted that we bring you back here. Muds didn't want me to, but I didn't want to take you to your house since that cow Paula is there all the time, and this is kind of like your secondary home, so…" She trails off, and I continue to stare at her, though my eyebrows rise in the middle—feeling a little shocked by my caretaker's resentment to house me.

Again, I look around the room, and confirm that there's no sign of the irritable Satanist. There aren't many belongings in the room. There's a small bag of my clothes on the chair beside the bed—I wondered briefly how much arguing between Rachel and Paula ensued to get those belongings—but other than that, there's nothing besides the bed and the dresser against the other wall.

"Muds…isn't here…" Lewis says quietly, running his fingers through his hair and coming to stand at the side of the bed. "He got his stuff and left."

"Well, it doesn't look like his took _all_ of his stuff." The three of us turn to Aaron, who's pulling a vibrant red instrument case from the otherwise dusty confines beneath the bed.

"He didn't take his bass with him?" Rachel says in surprise as I readjust with interest. I didn't know that my caretaker plays an instrument. "That's weird. Usually he takes it with him everywhere.."

"Guess he forgot it." Lewis shrugs as Aaron unzips the case and pulls out a beautiful and polished red bass. The shine of its surface has me gawking and leaning forward to get a better look.

"This here is a rare 1981 Gibson Flying V bass." Aaron says to me matter-of-factly, stroking the instrument admiringly and toying with the tuning pegs.

"Yeah, Muds is the best bassist I've ever heard." Lewis adds. "He's wicked devoted."

"That's why he wanted to rob your store, ya know." Rachel says to me. "His plan was to steal all the keyboards, sell 'em, and then use the money to start his own band. He still wants one." I hang on her every word, intrigued that anybody would go to such lengths for a _band_. Then I think that Lewis is right—that right there is a crazy kind of devotion.

"Anyway," Aaron says, "We'll just hang onto this baby for a few hours. He'll come back for it. Muds wouldn't leave his most prized possession in our hands." I duck my head guiltily again. I know that it's my fault Muds isn't in his own home right now, and feel an irritation fire that I'm so weak. Blacking out under one little shove? Rachel misreads my expression and hastily tries to reassure me.

"Muds isn't angry at you, Stu." She says softly. "I'm not just saying that—he didn't leave because of you. He's angry, but he left cause I guess he has to blow off some steam about that…young woman." It sounds as though there's another term she wants to apply to my dark-haired friend. "Really though, he didn't mean to make you black out. That was an accident." He certainly is having a lot of accidents around me lately.

It looks as though she wants to continue, but is interrupted by a loud bang that seems to shake the foundation of the house. "ALRIGHT, WHERE IS IT?" The door bangs open, and, speak of the devil, there's my terrifying caretaker now. "Come on, give it up mate." He says, stepping forward and reaching for the bass in Aaron's hands, a surprisingly patient look on his face. I keep my eyes on the ground.

His eyes wander the room and land on me, and I hear the smirk that touches his lips. "Oh hey, face ache's awake." I swallow, dumbfounded, flustering in my sudden awe for him. It makes you hold people in a new light, knowing that they're a musician, and there's a strange new respect forming for the Satanist as he pulls the instrument from his pudgy friend. "You didn't get any scratches on 'er, did you?"

"Nah—Don't think so." Aaron says complacently, interlocking his hands behind his head and leaning back.

"Only because he doesn't wanna die today," Lewis adds teasingly, stepping back as Aaron swats at him lazily.

"Why's it so out of tune?" Muds murmurs, pulling the strap over his head so that he can reach the strings easier.

"Well, I think we'd better go, huh Chel?" Aaron says loudly, stretching his arms. Rachel looks surprised.

"Er, no…it's not that late…"

"What are you talking about? You know that nine o'clock is way past Tosspot's bedtime!" He leans forward to ruffle my hair, and I glare though nobody pays attention to the indignant gesture.

"Well, I guess you probably _should_ take Stu home now, Muds." Rachel says quietly, standing up. She turns to me, and looks as though she wants to say something, but after a moment of parted lips with no sound, she locks her jaw again and simply leans down to kiss my forehead.

I feel like such a child as the three of them make their way to the door. "Take Stu home now," "Get Stu to bed now," "Don't give Stu any alcohol," "Don't let Stu smoke cigarettes," Everyone could at least give _me_ these useless demands rather than spitting them at my caretaker and having him enforce them. Like a cigarette is going to change my condition. I'm gonna be vegetated for the rest of my life anyway. The thought is really, _really_ depressing, so I lean back against the pillows, a frown on my face as they give me a last wistful wave, say goodbye to Murdoc, and leave.

I glare at the ground as the Satanist turns to me, gritting my teeth and trying not to look like I'm pouting.

"Well, come on then." He says, tone picking up that note of irritation he always gets when handling me. I take my time swinging my legs over the side of the bed and getting to my feet. At last, I look up at his face, and for a moment, it's all I _can_ look at. A gawk forms on my lips, and my eyebrows crease in horror. He has a black eye. Right there. A black eye. He rolls his eyes and shuffles me towards the door. I realize that this is his own little bit of guilt that he's disposing of by being "Less rough" for the moment.

I can guarantee that that won't last long.

As I'm forced down the hallway, I keep stumbling and looking over my shoulder at the purple color that stains his eye lids, lips never completely closing. "Would you pay attention to where you're putting your feet, dullard?" He growls, catching me under the elbow as I trip on the edge of the rug before the door.

As I get into the car, it occurs to me that it's rude to be staring so much, but in all honesty, I simply _cannot_ seem to look away. The questions that seem to build up in the back of my throat get blocked off so that I have to simply stare and await an explanation. He frowns, though he doesn't look at me.

"It was the cow." He mutters. "She got all worked up when you passed out." I blinked, still waiting, a new line of worry creasing my brow. "No, I didn't get to screw up her face too, but I figure that I already screwed up yours, so I'm satisfied." I settle back into my seat as he starts the car, processing this information. This is his way of telling me that Paula isn't hurt. As he backs out of the driveway and starts down the road, I slowly feel the ghost of a smile touch my lips.

Air rushes out my nose and the corners of my mouth turn up, making a small snort of amusement. He glances to me quickly, seemingly too surprised to be irritated. My teeth show as a wave of silent laughter racks my shoulders, and those shallow snorts that substitute for giggles. It was such a typical "teenage boy" kind of laughter. The classic "You don't hit girls" rule coming to my mind. I don't imagine the Satanist stumbling back from the punch and cupping his eye in shock, but rather, stumbling a few steps and then launching his own attack, soon restrained by Lewis.

I shake my head and turn away, setting my elbow on the armrest, my cheek in my palm, and looking out the window as we drive, that small smile still in place.

When we reach my house, I'm surprised to see that it's my dad who's waiting on the sidewalk rather than Paula, which makes me think that she must be really pissed at Muds if she's not even going to risk having to talk to him now. I open my door and step out as Dad looks at the car, examining the dented doors, rusted mirrors, and broken headlight (how long has he been driving this thing around without getting stopped by a police car?) with interest.

I reach back in to get my duffel bag of clothes, and Dad starts to talk to Murdoc, surprising both of us. "This is a Vauxhall Astra, isn't it?" He says questioningly, and the Satanist's eyes narrow suspiciously.

"Er, yeah,"

"Are you planning on getting it fixed?" Dad says bluntly, making no attempt at subtlety. He's never been a very subtle person.

"Nah—I'm…I'm shall we say, "saving up" my money." I give another one of those air snorts, and don't know why I'm feeling so giddy all of the sudden.

"Well, ya know, Stu…" Dad turns to me, eyebrows rising. "We could probably fix this up."

Here's the thing.

Dad's a mechanic. He does stuff like that. Once in a while, when I was around twelve and thirteen, he'd let me help him screw things in or hold a piece of wood down while he drills it, but I never got to work with him on the actual car or object. The closest I got to that was when I was fourteen and the two of us were fooling around with my keyboard—we added rigs and things, to create a totally customized instrument for me.

That is the extent of my experience.

So it's very odd that he's speaking as though he wants me to help him, because the last time I helped him with something like this, I ended up (by TOTAL accident) drilling a big hole through the car roof. It's a total coincidence that that was the day he refused to buy me that new video game…

I stare back at him in surprise, and he smiles encouragingly, while Murdoc looks to me inquisitively. "You know how to fix cars?" He says, sounding a little doubtful. My eyes shift to him, eyebrows still raised in shock, and my answer is clear in my face.

_I…guess I do? _

"Sure he does." Dad says flippantly, crossing his arms. "He used to work on 'em with me." The Satanist's expression and mine are identical now as one eyebrow rises. "If you like, we can fix it up for you."

"Seriously?" Muds murmurs, now sounding very very suspicious.

"Of course." This is where I realize why Dad wants my help on this, and that is because I'm nineteen. A nineteen year old boy, and I still have no idea what I want to do with my life, and Dad has always wanted me to grow up to be a mechanic like him. That's why he's doing this—he wants me to help him fix a car to see if he can spark some kind of "long lost interest" in mechanics. I roll my eyes and cross my arms exhaustedly.

It's been a while since he's done something like this.

"Uh, well, sure then." Murdoc says, sounding pleasantly surprised.

"Good!" Dad says, smiling, and patting me on the back. "In that case, you can just bring it over tomorrow morning and Stu will get to work." He nods to Muds and turns away to go into the house. My eyes are popping with shock, and we're both gawking at his back as he enters our home and disappears.

There's a moment of silence before Murdoc says, "You have absolutely no idea how to fix a car, do you?" His tone is flat and monotone. There's a long moment of stillness before I shake my head back and forth slowly, and he nods.

"Aw'right then—we'll see what he can do in the morning." And with that, he starts the engine again and accelerates, always too fast, as he disappears around the corner. I don't stand for long before I frown and make my way up the steps and into the house, rethinking my father's motive.

Because then again, Muds would shatter me if I broke his car, and I never really did pay my dad back for that last one that I kicked the windows out of.

But dads aren't allowed to be bitter, right?

**Hey guys! Please please please review and follow my story! I guess even if you don't review, I'd be happy with just a few followers! By the way, I think that next chapter is going to be the last one, or maybe the second to last one, before 2D comes out of his coma.**

**-TTDW**


	4. If He's not Bitter, He must be Stupid

"I swear to god, face ache, if you screw up my car…"

Sweat slides down the sides of my face as I bend at the front bumper of the vehicle, wrench clutched in trembling hands. I figure, as the evil lord of hell hisses threats at me from several feet away, that if my dad isn't bitter, he must be absolutely _stupid_.

This morning, the man left me—me, the one who can't take a shower without finding a way to almost drown myself—and Murdoc Niccals—the one who'd rather sell his own soul than do any varying degree of hard labor—with a box of tools, a torn up car, and a little instruction manual with technical terms that seem to rearrange themselves on the page when I look at the small letters.

Does catatonia really take away the ability to read?

Our shabby compromise was for me to do the actual fixing, and for the Satanist to read the instructions out loud to me. It's been exactly sixty-three minutes and we're just starting step number two out of thirty-one.

"No, no, twist it the other way…" Murdoc murmurs irritably at me, not moving as he leans against the counter that holds many other useful little tools—screw drivers, drills, a saw (I'm thinking that maybe I should put that a little further out of the antagonist's reach). "…The _other_ way, dullard! Christ, you're a twit! Righty tighty, lefty loosy, remember that from kindergarten?" His tone is mocking.

I screw up my expression as I twist the bolt into place and then wipe my greasy hands on my washed out jeans. I stand up and start to stretch, but suddenly a bony clawed hand takes a fist-full of my azure hair and pushes me back down onto my knees.

"Oh no, face ache, you've still got another thirteen steps to go before you get a break." I scowl at the Satanist, but he just shrugs. "You're the one who bent it." I glare, eyes lit with fury and clearly saying, _It's more imperative to point out that _it_ bent _me_. _"Think of it this way," He says reasonably, crossing his ankles and keeping his lazy eyes on the booklet as he flips through uninterestedly. "How in the world are the two of us gonna pick up chicks in this lousy piece of crud?"

I nearly roll my eyes, but stop myself and—with a tight jaw—return to work. Like I'm going to be attracting any women with an eye like this. For a moment, I think I hear him laugh, but the small and distant sound is suddenly cut off, and I then feel his eyes burning into my back as I work.

I can almost smell the inquisitive waves rolling off the silent man, peering at me in thought.

. . . .

I lie on the concrete garage floor, face absolutely drenched in sweat, bare chest (the sticky tank top was removed hours ago) heaving up and down with the force of my exhaustion. Murdoc too looks a little worse for ware, thin dark green T-shirt sticking to his torso and usually kempt black hair sweat stained and pushed back out of his eyes with a navy blue bandana found on one of the workshop benches.

It's almost strange seeing his forehead along with his eyes, so used to the usual bangs that substitute for irritated, furrowed eyebrows, giving him a permanently evil look. Now however, he just looks terribly in need of a large pack of beer, breathing heavily and trying to wipe the moisture from his face.

Halfway through the steps, he'd had to bend down next to me and help hold down a plate while I screwed the bolt into it, and after that he decided that he'd better make sure that I don't mess the important stuff up, and had started working as hard as me. I've learned that he can survive labor, but may just need hospitalization nonetheless if ever put up to it again.

I watch him from the floor as he finally stumbles from the counter top and yanks me to my feet by the upper arm. "Well, this was definitely worth eight hours and twenty two minutes of work." He mutters, nodding proudly at the Vauxhall Astra. True, it looks almost brand new, excluding the chipped blue paint job that has yet to be fixed, but I still don't know that I can agree with Murdoc.

Eight hours and twenty two minutes is quite a stretch. I think I'd rather go to back to high school for a day than relive this nightmare.

Well, maybe.

"This should be running fine now for tonight." I glance at him in surprise, but he doesn't explain any further, and suddenly shoves me towards the open garage door. "Alright, let's get somethin' to eat. Otherwise I'll probably keel over and die right here."

So we go inside and (after the Satanist chugs about a gallon of tap water, refusing to let me anywhere near the tempting liquid) get into the (almost) brand new Vauxhall Astra and back into the road. As usual, the tires swerve dangerously on the road as I examine my nails while we drive. It appears that one is chipped from the incident when Muds accidentally—or maybe not so accidentally—whacked my fingers with his wrench when I reached for the half-drunken beer on the counter.

I let out one of those toneless sighs that I've managed being catatonic—one where the air only comes out my nose—and turn to glare at the bass-playing bastard. He glances at my chipped nail, then my displeased expression, and snorts. "Don't be such a chick." He chuckles, accelerating on the nearly empty road.

. . . .

By the time we reach Murdoc's small, shabby living quarters, I'm surprised to see that Rachel, Lewis, and Aaron are already there in the driveway, leaning against their car. Were they waiting all this time? A little confused, I stumble out of the car onto the pavement as Muds is already greeting them.

"Hey, guys," He says, but the words are said in a monotone, somehow ominously, and his face is serious. They nod back at him, expressions all equally dark and mysterious, and I'm of course now suspicious of what's going on. Raising a quizzical brow, I approach the group of four, premeditated irritation brewing in my stomach.

"Why is _he_ here?" Rachel asks my caretaker, gesturing to me in annoyance. At her unusually harsh words, my body does that annoying thing where it seems to cave in on itself all on its own. Muds shrugs.

"Why not?"

"What the hell are you playing at, Murdoc? Don't get a teenage boy involved in this! You promised that Stu would be with his family!"

I watch the two arguing, feeling both curious and offended at the same time. A teenage boy? Hardly. Nineteen isn't that young…at least, not when being grouped with them. I'm not _that_ much younger than any of the people here…Except maybe Aaron.

"We're not taking him!" Rachel yells at my caretaker, dark eyes flashing with fury.

"Why not?" Murdoc repeats in disinterest, leaning against the hood of the vehicle and examining his long nails, much the same way as I did in the car.

"Because it's not safe! Besides, he shouldn't get mixed up in this anyway."

"It's not like I can just leave 'im at his house. His mum's at her job and so is 'is dad." I snort, now feeling the offence, and the sarcasm. Offence now, because they're discussing what to do with me like I'm some five year old, and sarcasm because I know that this is just an excuse. Like Murdoc cares if I'm left home alone or not—just as long as I'm not left alone in HIS home.

"Listen," He says, cutting her off as she looks like she's about to argue again, "I know that it doesn't really 'ave anything to do with 'im, but I figure that this is good for 'im. Ya know, it's good to experience this kind of thing when you're young."

"That is so completely wrong, I can't even—"

"Don't worry 'bout it. He's stayin' in the car anyway."

"I won't allow it."

"Why not ask if he wants to go?" Lewis muses, gazing at me with a sneaky smile.

"Sure!" Rachel says mockingly, and turns to me, seemingly very confident. "Stu," She says, "Do you want to be labeled as a criminal for the rest of your life and never get a job and never get a girlfriend, and never get married?" I stare at her for a long time, waiting for her to explain, but she doesn't.

"What she means, mate," Aaron says, grinning at me, "is do you want to break into someone's house with us?"

I watch all of them, waiting for the punch line. But it doesn't come.

Slowly, my jaw drops open. So they ARE criminals? Maybe I could understand the store thing, even if it was a horrible plan that almost got me killed, but this? Breaking into somebody's home? "Ugh, you look so sappily disappointed!" Murdoc groans irritably, pulling his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. "It's not like were just robbing _anybody_. We're robbing _Chester Finch_."

"The lousy git's got more cash than 'is tiny brain can handle, anyway. He ought'ta _share_." Lewis says with a wicked grin. Again, I just stare, and Rachel smiles proudly.

"See?" She says, turning to Muds. "He doesn't want in on your little criminal games." But as the three men grumble to themselves and turn towards the car, I stumble forward and catch the elbow of Murdoc's recently equipped black leather jacket, and he looks back over his shoulder at me.

I meet his eyes with depthless, wide irises, one hazel and twinkling, the other black and becoming an innocent reminder of what he did to my face (just because I can) and a small hint of determination in my gaze that answers, Yes.

He grins and even hangs his arm over my shoulder as he pulls open the passenger door and pushes me inside. "Face ache's on board!" He says, and then slams my door shut before walking around to the other side. Lewis and Aaron whoop and clap me on the back from the rear seat, but Rachel growls and glares at my caretaker as he puts the key in the ignition and turns it sideways.

"Don't be such a buzz kill, Chel." He smiles back at her, yellow pointy teeth glistening in the small light offered by the setting sun. As we back into the road, my face is flushed and my eyes are wide.

I don't know why I'm doing this. I really don't. Perhaps it's because I've never experienced anything so wild sounding, or maybe because I think that they once again have good enough reason—starting a band is obviously something that my caretaker really wants—but then, maybe it's also because, as they all turned towards the vehicle without me, I'd felt a strange sense of longing and regret, as though I have nothing to lose anyway.

And really, I don't.

I have no goals, so a criminal record isn't going to damage anything important, I have no other life now outside of my comatose state and these four people right here, so there's nobody to disappoint (besides my parents, but they get disappointed in me all the time), and anyway, it's not like I'm clouding a perfect record. I wasn't exactly the angel of holiness in high school, or junior high, or grade school for that matter. Specifically, I've never robbed a house, but I've robbed warehouses and stores, so this really isn't that much different.

Lewis and Aaron are laughing like maniacs in the back seat, Rachel has a distinctly distraught expression on her face, and Muds has something akin to excitement twinkling in his mismatched eyes.

"Just do what I tell ya to do, and it'll all go smoothly, face ache." He murmurs to me, the others not paying attention.

I nod vigorously and, in spite of myself, a large grin creeps over my lips. This is exciting, I realize. This is new. This is fun.

This is exhilarating.

**Hey guys! Sorry for taking so long to update. This chapter is kind of blah, but I did want to get this to you guys quickly since I've been putting it off for so long. I may be able to get two more chapters of catatonic 2D out of this, but I'd like to move along with 2D's singing abilities pretty soon since he obviously can't sing if his voice is gone. Thanks for reading, and please review,**

**-TTDW**


	5. Author's Note

**Dear Readers,**

**Please do not be alarmed—this isn't a note saying that I'm discontinuing the story. Actually, I just wanted to apologize for not updating in so long. To be honest, I was going to work fast and post a new chapter this weekend, but ya see, my big sis is coming home from college this weekend, and I'd really rather spend time with her than work on this (I'm NOT SAYING that this fic is a waste of time, but you guys understand, right?).**

**And, I'd work on it on the weekdays, but to be honest, sixth grade is sort of tiring me out. There's only so much an overworked preteen can do, right? ;P **

**So please, continue to check your emails for updates (That's a hint to start following my story XD) and I hope to get the next chapter in soon. Sorry if you guys got the update for this one thinking it was a new chapter and got your hopes destroyed. I'd estimate that it should be ready…next Sunday?**

**Again, I'm really sorry that it's taking so long.**

**Thank you if you're willing to wait and forgive me,**

**-Tais Takara**


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